


Love

by Whuffie



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whuffie/pseuds/Whuffie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brothers in all but family name, Reginald Cousland and Alistair Therin stand before the broken, dying body of the Archdemon.  One must take the final blow which Alistair believes will lead to the death of the Warden.  He wants it to be himself, but Reginald argues with him.  True friendship stands the test on top of Fort Drakon as the decision is made.</p><p>Rated Teen for battle violence / gore.</p><p>#2 of a 365 prompt challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

John 15:13 KJV Bible

  
Darkspawn blood dripped over his forehead, worming past his brow and smelling like carrion which was split open under a hot sun.  It stung when it hit the multiple places his lip was split, and burned where it crawled into the corner of his eyes.  The helmet he’d started the battle with had been discarded after it was so badly damaged he could no longer see out of it, and every muscle in his body was saturated with fatigue.  Battle rage was the only thing keeping him upright, and he barely glanced aside as a pair of werewolves clawed out the back tendons of an ogre.  Blood spewed over their matted fur as primal fury met corrupted rage, and several more bore the huge monster down as a pack.

  
The enemy waves kept coming, and Alistair mechanically reached up clear his eyes as much as possible with the back of his templar gauntlet.  It was almost over.  The Archdemon’s claws were scraping against the stones feebly as it kept trying to pull itself back up and fight.  It was done for, and even it had to know.  “We have to kill it,” he heard himself saying numbly to the man standing next to him who he called a true brother.  “You remember what Riordan said.  If it dies without one of us taking the final blow, all of this...” he made an exhausted gesture with Maric’s bloody sword to the chaos around them, “is going to be for nothing.”

  
Reginald pulled his own helmet off, letting it fall at his feet with a dead rattle.  His cheek was scraped raw and his gait was stiff enough to make him clumsy on one side.  Alistair had never seen him anything but a fleet, silent killer who had similar training to Zevran or Leliana.  He was hurt, so that meant Wynne must have gotten separated from them.  Either that or she’d fallen in the battle.  He couldn’t think about that.  It was one thing too many.  There would be time to find out later, and all he could keep in his head was Aedan Reginald Cousland.  He had become a man Alistair considered a brother in everything but blood.

  
Reginald was also grinning?  It was that same expression he always got when he was up to something.  That was practically all the time, and he showed his teeth like a fox fleeing a chicken coop with feathers sticking out of its mouth.  

  
“I know you said to Riordan that you would take the final blow, but let me.”  The runes in Alistair’s sword blazed with the darkspawn presence as he used it to point at the dying dragon.   “This is my duty.”  

  
“What of being king?  You said you were no longer averse to the idea now that you had time to get adjusted to it.”  

  
Alistair sighed and shook his head slowly.  “Anora can rule.  I never cared about becoming king, you know that.  This right here is the best king that I can be, my first and last act being to stop the Blight before it really starts.  No one could blame me for that,” he tried feebly for humor, “could they?”

  
“Perhaps not, but you would make a fine king.”  Bubbles of blood were starting to ooze from the nostrils of the Archdemon, and time was slipping away.

  
“Really?  I think I’d make a piss-poor king,” Alistair argued with a pale chuckle.  “I don’t know the first thing about it.  Not to mention that you’re the best friend I could have ever have asked for.  I’d be dead if you hadn’t saved my life a dozen times over by now.  Let me save yours just this once.”

 

The dragon was going to die while they argued about it, but neither could bring themselves to the dread finality of a death which would take one of them.  “It is my duty as much as yours, you know.  We are both Grey Wardens.”

  
“Maybe, but I’ve got one up on you.  I’m not just a Grey Warden.  I’m the king, and I want to be a good king.”  A sense of foreboding had settled like a metal weight in his gut because he knew Reginald wasn’t listening.  He tried anyway. “Let me do this.”

  
“Absolutely not.”  Reginald spat blood which was trickling from a broken nose into his mouth, and pushed his auburn hair out of his face.  “You, my liege, have a kingdom to run and you shall learn quickly enough.  I have utmost faith in you.  Death is fast,” he insisted with the same mad grin and clapped Alistair on the pauldron, “but it has not yet caught me.  Perhaps I yet have a few tricks to thwart it.  We shall see, but regardless, you shall live, Alistair.  Live, love, and sit upon the throne as the king this country deserves.  You are more capable than you know.”  He crossed his arms over his heart and bowed.

  
With the sick feeling spreading up to a lump in his throat, Alistair returned the gesture.  He swallowed hard as he watched Reginald charge with Starfang and Topsider’s Honor drawn, navigating as only he could through the slick pools of blood which gushed from the Archdemon’s throat.  Leaping astride its neck, the rogue thrust both daggers deep into the base of the dragon’s skull, sinking the blades into the brain.

  
Alistair’s chest went heavy with grief as he saw and felt the end.  The beast thrashed once, rearing its head up, then flopped down with Reginald holding fast to its neck with his legs.  The soul, energy, or whatever was inside the monster exploded in a halo of light, and Reginald screamed.  It was so raw, primal and intense it sounded inhuman, and twisted Alistair’s stomach into a knot.  Irrationally, he was ready to charge forward until a weary Wynne grabbed his arm.  She shook her head, but neither of them had time to grieve as the explosion grew and blew them both from their feet.

  
Alistair’s head banged painfully off the stone and it was several seconds before he could orient and prop himself upright.  Wynne had landed on her backside, slightly dazed, but alright. In too much pain to worry about of his physical injuries, Alistair managed to wobble to his feet and stagger to Reginald’s body.  They’d done it.  The Archdemon was dead and the Blight was ended, but at what cost?  

  
Collapsing to his knees beside his best friend, he put one arm under the rogue’s shoulders and propped him up.  “You should have let me do it,” he heard himself saying.  His tongue felt like a dried chunk of leather.  “It should have been me.”

  
First Duncan, then all the other Wardens, and now Reginald.  When would he stop losing his friends?  How was he going to make decisions now that he didn’t have anyone standing beside him to help?  “Why didn’t you let me?”

  
“Because,” Reginald wheezed as he managed to squint his eyes open past a throbbing headache.  “I did not plan to die.”

  
Alistair startled and dropped the other man so abruptly that he banged his skull off the ground.  “Reginald!  You are Reginald?  You’re not possessed or undead or ... or something!”

  
“Ow!  Was that necessary?” Cousland snapped, massaging the back of his head against the newly expanded pain.  “I thought I had wounds enough without you adding to them, brother mine.”

  
It sounded like Reginald, but Alistair frowned.  “But ... it’s not possible.  The Archdemon didn’t jump into another body, right?  We killed it, didn’t we?  It’s dead?”  His voice was rising quickly into the range of panic.  “It has to be dead after everything we just went through!”

  
“It is dead Alistair.  Maker’s soiled drawers, stop fretting like a grey-haired nan.  We killed the ghastly thing, now kindly help me up so Wynne can scrape my brains back into my head where they belong, yes?”

  
Alistair would try and get him to tell how he’d done it later, but at that moment, he didn’t care.  Propelling himself upright with energy reserves he didn’t know he had, he helped pull Reginald to his feet.  Laughing almost manically from joy, he gripped both of his brother’s shoulders and stared at him.  “I don’t believe it.  You did it, and you’re still alive!”

  
“Do stop shouting, Alistair.  Did I not mention my head aches?  We shall yell later with great delight and perhaps add some comely elven ladies from the Pearl.  If, that is, the darkspawn had the good taste to leave it standing.  Until then, do lower your voice, will you not?  Some buffoon...” He eyed his fellow Warden balefully, “dropped me on my head.”

  
Unable to help himself, Alistair laughed again until his legs were weak from the mirth.  “Wynne is right over there.  Come on.”  The pair of them limped over to the healer.

**Author's Note:**

> It would have been really easy to write a fluff piece for any of my OTPs for "Love." That seems like the natural way to go, but I'm trying to think a little outside the box with these prompts and chose a bromance instead.


End file.
